


Creatures of Ruin and Need

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, mild crossdressing, minor (under fifteen)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry always comes to Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creatures of Ruin and Need

**Author's Note:**

> Immeasurable thanks go to my beta team for this, and the next Snarry eight fics I will be posting (every Wednesday). They take so much abuse but haven't cried for mercy! [](http://seatbeltdrivein.livejournal.com/profile)[**seatbeltdrivein**](http://seatbeltdrivein.livejournal.com/) , [](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/profile)[**keppiehed**](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://ratherbsailing.livejournal.com/profile)[**ratherbsailing**](http://ratherbsailing.livejournal.com/) , thank you! Also, huge hugs to [](http://accioslash.livejournal.com/profile)[**accioslash**](http://accioslash.livejournal.com/) , who ran the Snarry-a-thon, read and edited my obscene (both in number and in content) fics, _and_ wrote sweet and thoughtful reviews for each. You're a goddess!

You never really understand how you get to this point.

Afterward, you sit at the desk in your classroom, the desk _he_ was just on, and you think… 'What have I done?' But there's never any answer.

There is no before. There is no after. There is only during, only now.

His robes have already spilled to the floor in a way too practised for someone of his age. His tight, ribbed singlet is snug—you can see the peaks of his nipples even from your distance, a distance that is closing with every fall of his slender, shoeless feet.

You absently take in that he is wearing a skirt. This should seem odd. But then, nothing does anymore, not when it comes to him.

It's one of those Catholic schoolgirl get-ups that you recognize from your infrequent forays into Muggle pornography. On those girls—breasts straining oxford shirt buttons, shaved snatches peaking out from beneath blue tartan in a strange representation of prepubescent reminiscence—it doesn’t, _can't_ , look as sexual as it does on Harry Potter.

Afterward, you can never remember if Harry actually speaks. He must—he had to have seduced you somehow, and you are a man of words. You find solace in them, you draw them up and spit them out, you hide behind them. Your weakness is known by this one, yet he does not exploit it. He does not use language to pull you to him.

He doesn’t need to.

Your mouth is dry as he approaches your chair, but your face is, as ever, schooled into indifference, as if you couldn’t care less that his knobby knees—the left one is skinned—are moving to bring him closer. His tongue slides out to wet his lips and you _know_ this is a learned thing, not natural, but you're too immersed in the depravity of it to do more than note it academically and promise to study it.

Afterward.

He's like a cat as he crawls onto your lap, straddling you. His lips curl in the faintest way when he settles over your erection, satisfaction evident in his feline gaze. You can't care, though. You never could. Let him have his satisfaction—he certainly lets you have yours.

Like they have too many times before, your hands find their way to his slender hips, his narrow waist, his cool, thin arms, his neck, striated with tendons as he makes little sounds of appreciation and encouragement.

Sounds you've never heard before in relation to yourself.

You're so full of _anger_ , hot and biting, that he can make you feel this way. Out of control and with no desire to get back in it. It isn’t right. For so many reasons—reasons enumerated in numbing detail, _afterward_ —it shouldn’t happen. How dare he strip you of your reserve—how dare he claw his way into your skin, nest there, feed off you when he needs to, only to discard you once finished? What will be left of you when this incubus gets his fill of you?

Why don't you care?

Coherent thought becomes more difficult to attain when his small hands, cool and pale, land on your trousers. You'd forgone robes in hopes that he—no, you'd forgone robes because they sometimes get in the way of your brewing, and you've been brewing tonight, not waiting.

Harry gives you a small smile, uncertainty hinting at the edges, and you know that he isn’t just a creature of the night trying to steal your soul through your essence. There's a moment, or rather, a thousand little ones, that makes you realise that he's just a _boy_. It never, ever stops you, though. Just as it doesn’t stop him.

Of their own accord, your hands strip his undershirt and stroke over his skin. He's warming up, despite his lack of dress, despite the cool temperatures you maintain. It won't be long until he's like a self-perpetuating warming charm and his skin will begin to feel unnaturally hot.

"Help," Harry says, a small word followed by a sheepish smile and a tug on your trousers.

You try to act nonchalant when you unbuckle your belt and open your trouser placket, but your fingers are shaking in a way that would put paid to your career if it were to happen at any other time. Harry's fingers slide over yours, not really assisting, just reminding you what's waiting. He knows your desires as surely as if he'd performed Legilimency and you were too weak to keep him out.

Once your cock is freed, he takes it in both hands, stroking it while looking at your face and you look anywhere but at his. Then one hand moves to your sac and he begins to knead and massage, sure movements that denote experience and motivation. Your own hands centre on his arse, and you grip in counterpoint to his jerks on your cock; you're pulling him against you so that he has hardly any room to manoeuvre, his cocklet is pressed against his own hand. He rests his head on your shoulder when your finger finds his hole—slick and slightly open; your heart _pounds_ —and you can smell his shampoo even though by the state of his hair you'd swear he didn’t use any.

He's moving now, rocking against you, breath coming fast. His arse clenches in your hands as you finger his boypussy, sliding two and then three fingers inside like they were nothing. You wonder, for a jealous moment, who he's been practising with, but you don't really care—or so you tell yourself as you try to fit your smallest finger inside too, punishing him and making him whimper.

"Now," you say, and your voice isn’t your own or at least not any version you've ever heard outside these moments. "Now."

Harry smiles and lifts up, holding onto your shoulders with his knees on either side of your thighs, and you wonder for a moment whether his skinned one is getting sore. Now his cock is pressed against your stomach and he's leaning forward, bracing himself on you. He wants you to guide it in, you know, but you take a moment's perverse delight in acting like you don't know what he wants. He pulls back to look at your face, his hands tightening on your shoulders in admonishment, as if he knows exactly what you were thinking.

You need this too badly to try to maintain his eerie eye contact. You slouch a little in your chair, bringing him with you, and steady your heavy cock with one hand. Your other hand rests on his pointed hip as you bring him down to meet you. From there, he knows all too well what to do. You can feel his hole twitching against the crown of your cock but he bears down, and the twitching becomes a fluttering and then a full-on rebellion until _finally_ you break through the tight ring and he makes that sound—

 _"Ugh."_

It's halfway between a whimper and a grunt and you have to grip the base of your cock as he continues to sink down just to escape the immediate need to come from that sound alone. "Ugh."

It's need personified, that sound. It's every unvoiced desire and tamped-down urge.

Harry begins to move, serpentine, his hips gyrating in this transfixing way. A body—a boy—shouldn’t move like that. And then he's leaning back, his hands holding onto your knees, almost as knobby as his, and his entire lower body _rolls,_ and he's moving in a way that you've only seen in the wizarding photos Minerva once brought back from her vacation in some hot, undeveloped country where belly dancers moved the same way, only with less guile.

You watch—for what else can you do—as Harry fucks himself on your cock. It's dirty… it's so fucking dirty. It shouldn’t be happening—it's wrong—but _Merlin_ , that sound he keeps making, the way his eyes don't tear away from yours… the way his hands clench on your knees when your cock hits his prostate.

A part of you notices, of course, the tightness. The almost painful grip of his cunt around you, milking you, and how his body bends around you as his hips dance. The skirt hides all your sins, all of his, and somehow it's more sexual than seeing his small cock bobbing as you know it is, seeing your prick slide into him, his arsehole gripping and trying to follow every time you slide out. You want to feel it. Your hand moves beneath his skirt, fingers pressing against your own cock as it spears him, his hole stretched in a way that you know looks obscene.

You feel your balls tighten up and it's too much—you move your hand away to rest on his back. Your hand is too wide to settle comfortably between his sharp shoulder blades, that's how narrow he is.

Harry lurches forward, throwing his arms around your neck and shoulder—your fronts are pressed together, hard, and his cock isn’t much more than an insistent jab against your abdomen. He's bouncing more than rolling now, and it's just as good.

His mouth is on your jaw, not kissing or licking or nipping in some practised and irritating way—it's just resting there, open. His lips are parted and the hot wetness of his breath scalds your skin as he says, again and again, "Ugh," each expulsion of the word a stream of breath against the skin of your face that's become slick with your shared sweat and his saliva.

The way he says it, that little half-grunt, it almost sounds like the inept way he sometimes responds to your demands in class when he hasn’t been paying attention and you know, even though you hate yourself for it, that you're going to try to catch him at bad times, make him slip up in class so he'll make that little sound and you'll get hard because in an instant you'll be back in this room, buried inside his greedy hole, and maybe one day you won't be able to control yourself and you'll step up behind him and throw his robes up, slam his chest down onto the desk, uncaring of the Billywig stingers he's been preparing, and fuck-punch your way inside him until he's crying and you're triumphant—

He's had enough control, you decide. You take his arse into your hands and pull him up—his grasping centre tries to keep you inside, and you let him stretch a little as the mushroom head of your cock tugs at the ring of his entrance. You slam him back down, and he falls, his arse bouncing on your clothed thighs and that _noise_ —

It's so violent it almost feels like rape but for the way he grabs you and the way his mouth opens even wider against your cheek and the way one of his hands sneaks down to masturbate almost in a panic.

You're halfway through slamming him down yet again when he comes, and he gets so tight that he doesn’t slide the rest of the way but stutters around your cock, clenching and clamping down and against your face, he goes, " _Ugh_ ," one final time, and you can feel the smooth wetness of his teeth against your face like he wants to bite—

—And you're so thankful that you're coming, too, because the way he goes limp after he ejaculates would make fucking him seem like necrophilia and you're a monster but you're not a fucking animal—

His head falls back, mouth open, panting so hard his chest seems to have a creature inside it.

You hate him in moments like this, because while he's blissfully free of any thought, your mind is flooded because now it's _afterward_ and you have to start thinking about this again.

You pull him off you—"Tighten up," you say. "Hold it in,"—and place him on the floor, allowing him to use your arm to steady himself for a moment. He doesn’t look at you. He turns and grabs up a few tissues from your desk that you keep there for when students like _him_ hand in potions vials with the concoctions still smeared on the container. With his back to you, he stuffs the tissues between his reddened arsecheeks, stoppering the flood that would have otherwise occurred.

He fixes his skirt and grabs up his singlet, donning it and then pulling his robes over the outfit. You know it'll be the last time you see the skirt—it's always something different with him, never the same thing twice as if _he_ had to keep _you_ interested. You mourn the loss of the skirt for the moment, much longer than you ever mourned the loss of his innocence.

There's a red stain on his cheekbones but it should fade by the time he gets back to Gryffindor Tower. You're not worried about being caught—you're already damned. You almost want it to be over.

Almost.

When he's gone, again you wonder if he ever spoke a word and whether it means something. You wonder _why_ even though you know you'll never be satisfied with the answer.

You already regret it, like you do every time. But he'll be back, and you'll continue to grade papers in your classroom until much later than you ever did before he became a student here, and you'll keep ruining him like he has you until there's nothing left of either of you—

And then it'll begin again.

  
[Author's Note: For your interest, check out the one word that Harry did say.]


End file.
